inarticulate you and I, let's see how much
by mosaique
Summary: I love you because you're breathing and I'm waiting to hear it. Taito. Disclaimer: Digimon doesn't belong to me.
1. And this is how it began

His house had been cold back then. He would trudge along in shabby clothes and thick blankets that caught in the sharp turns of the house. He thinks Hikari was twelve. Maybe eleven; he could see the small lumps beginning to form on her chest. That was how he remembered that she was a girl, not a thin connection of bones and dirty skin that smelled like oil, rotten eggs, and burnt food. But that really wasn't her fault; the whole house stunk that way, probably even Taichi, and after awhile, he didn't notice it anymore. He didn't try to breathe through his mouth or stick his head out the window, because there was no point. The odor was sticking against the walls, inside Hikari's skin, in the far back walls of the cabinets, and, soon, it would cling to him too until the fresh air outside felt strange and tangy in his nose.

"I think mommy's coming home today," Hikari whispered; Tai closed his eyes and leaned his head back. "It's just this feeling I have."

"You seem to have that feeling a lot," Taichi said; Hikari came down beside him and rested her forehead on his shoulder. "Yeah, and one of them has got to be right sometime."

Taichi turned his head back until he was looking at her brown hair, oily and brown and clumpy, in a crooked ponytail. "I wish I could buy them," he murmured.

...

Taichi didn't remember his mother leaving. Six weeks ago, he had just found Hikari near the side of his bed, her toes wet and digging into the carpet, wiping her eyes.

"There's something missing" she said, half her face obscured by shadows, and she crawled into his bed, her fingers sticky and grasping onto his arms. There are some things you can not explain to others when your shoes are waiting to be filled up, so they let their tiny fingers cling to each other like the claws of bats after sunrise and fell asleep trying to see the brown color lurking in each other's eyes. Do you know that I know? Do you know that I know that you know?

In the morning, they could both feel the cold seeping into their house, ten red crescent grooves dug into their skin.

...

The landlord liked to come by and bang on the door; Taichi never answered. All the food from the pantry was nearly gone and he had more pressing things to think about than a fat man with clean clothes and washed hair. Hikari watched her brother staring at himself intently in the mirror with a coloring book clutched against her chest. The TV was on, displaying the program that their mother liked to watch with her various boyfriends. That was how she was born, Taichi said. That was how he was born too. During the program, when their mother and father linked bodies and moaned and screamed each other's name on the couch, rocking and needing – it was like going to the bathroom after a really long wait, Taichi told her after their mother told him – until the world collapsed for them, but it wasn't enough and it took their breath away.

They liked to watch the show; it was like a bedtime story and, sometimes, when they couldn't sleep, they would drag their blankets to the couch and turn on the TV to the slow, methodical peeling and dropping of clothes until it lured them off to slumber like a mother's voice.

Suddenly, Taichi spoke. "I'm going out," he said. "Open the door only when you hear a single knock, ok?"

Hikari nodded, and looked at his feet walking away until she couldn't see anything but pain burning along the side of her eyes near the corners. When Taichi came back, her back was stiff with her body stuck in the same position, even looking at the same spot on the wall across from her since he left. His clothes were torn, but he had food and money and he was here and that was enough.

"Did you get a job?" she asked.

"Yeah, something like that," and they laughed easily for the first time in weeks and filled their belly.

...

The landlord came by more often, and he stayed longer, the edge of his voice sharper. During one of those visits, Taichi turned toward her.

"I wish we had money," he said, "so he would go away."

"Me too."

"We could move."

"Our mother might come home."

Taichi was silent. "If she didn't, and it was just you, what would you need?"

"You mean, just us."

"Sure. But what would you need?"

"I have you."

"But what would you need?"

"Just you."

"How about want?"

"A prince." Hikari looked shy now. "I want one with gold hair." And she flipped to the page in her coloring book where he stood on a horse filled up meticulously with crayon wax.

"Anything else?"

"I'm almost out of crayons," she said. Taichi smiled.

"Here's ten bucks. When that guy leaves, do you remember the store near the corner? Why don't you go there and get new ones."

Hikari grinned. "You mean it?"

"Yeah," Tai nodded fervidly, and as soon as the knocking stopped, Hikari slipped out the back door. By the time she returned, the plastic bag with the crayons chattering next to her leg, the front door was open and there was something missing.

"Tai?" she said. She went into his room. "Tai?" His bed was cold and surprisingly clean.

She ran all over the house, her cheeks sticky again. She felt hot and burdened like there was something heavy and shaking inside her chest that she couldn't let out because there was too much room. It was still growing, bloating into her stomach, and Hikari couldn't stop crying, now. She crawled over to where Taichi had first left her, the pain near the edges of her eyes, the drums in her ear, and she stared at the same spot on the wall in the same crooked, stiff position waiting for something small and single to echo through the door, tiny enough for her to catch.

It was three days later when anyone came inside the house to find her half starved and dying and frozen awkwardly against a wall. Their footsteps were too loud and it easily overwhelmed her.

tbc.


	2. And this is how it became

It's that he's young and he has no one to depend on except the grubby, greedy old men (or women) with burly hands that like to smother him in odd places. The wet, sinking lips that run over his body and say things that could be wonderful and dazzling if Taichi didn't know who was building them up inside his ear.

It's that he's fifteen and hoping Hikari would know to click her heels against each other, because he couldn't save both of them so he just saved anyone but himself. Somebody would come, he told himself, somebody would come for her and save her, and he didn't stick around to find out if he was wrong.

He slipped behind an alleyway and pulled together enough money to go to one of the Big Cities that he kept hearing about, where there would be more hands, cold and raw like meat, to unbuckle his belt and make their bodies hot until it burned enough for money to fall like scraps on the floor. It was pure, blind, unquestionable luck that he did not contract AIDS from someone, and it came with a name: Joe and Mimi. It always came as a pair. Joe and Mimi.

They said they lived their entire lives in the Big Cities. Mimi had wanted to be a model. Joe had wanted to be a doctor. But it was like wishing in a well, and there was nothing but hearing their own words echo back at them from foreign voices and mouths that didn't quite shape the 'o' exactly like them. Everyone was clawing for a way out, and they really weren't as special as they liked to be. They liked Taichi because he had that apparent, suicidal courage everyone felt obligated to fix.

"We know the clean ones," they said. "We like to keep them in our circle," because there was a circle. It was led by older men named Dayu, Haru, and Natsu who had respectful jobs and didn't really do anything other than pick out the clean ('clean as in STDs free, kid,' they said, grinning like it was fantastic) ones from the bad and take pieces of other people's profit.

"What if you're wrong?" Taichi asked.

"We're still breathing. Besides, beats running blindly, don't you think?"

Sometimes, Taichi liked the shy ones, the ones that could barely walk up to him with their breath so sharp and sudden. They'd touch him real soft on the chest, tracing the lines with their eyes shoved to the floor and trembling. Taichi, if it felt right and if it felt fun, liked to pretend he was just as nervous as they were and he'd suck in a breath when they shifted, their bodies rolling slowly against each other, as if they did something special.

They would kiss him tender on the side of his neck, and hold on to him like he was what they wanted, not the full, blow out release that they bought him to give. Sometimes, he was, and the lost little rich kids bought him for days and, sometimes, even weeks in the summer to take him out to dinner and rides and promises like 'I'm going to get you out of this place, so why don't you love me and we'll be ok.' When Taichi got back from days like those, he would laugh and laugh so much that everyone thought he was a bit crazy. They would slap him on the back or snicker a bit next to him until he fell asleep with people joking about useless things, trying to figure out what was so funny, and wake up with his eyes dry and rough like he was dreaming with them open. The humor of the situation returned when he touched his back pocket and found a wad of money between his fingers, crisp, slick, and cool.

Takeru was one of those boys. He came unfocused and edgy with Mimi, who was whistling and laughing and flipping her hair, and introduced him to Miyako. It wasn't unusual for Mimi to be bringing around kids like that who could never remember for long the difference between money and limit.

"Wait," Takeru said suddenly, and his face was taut. His eyes flickered over to Taichi, and he tugged on Mimi's sleeve before whispering something in her ear.

"Sorry, Miyako," Mimi said, "You're just not his type. But why don't you be helpful, and bring Taichi over here."

Takeru didn't say much when Taichi walked over, slow and casual. Mimi was beaming, slung an arm around Takeru's shoulder, bringing him closer.

"He's cute, isn't he?" Mimi said to him; she tucked his blonde hair behind his ears. Takeru's hands grew wet and clammy. "How much?" he asked.

"Supply and demand," she replied, using one of her favorite phrases. "Lots of demand, only one Taichi, so-"

"Money's not an issue."

Mimi arched her eyebrow. "A thousand dollars for the whole day and night," she said; Takeru didn't even flinch. "Ok," he said, and they shook.

...

Takeru turned on the light of the hotel, and stepped in. It had been nearly a month since they first met. Takeru had lost the continuous red tint to his cheeks, and he looked confidently at Taichi, flinging his jacket on the bed. The hotel looked better than his apartment, clean and simple furniture, a crisp bed, and luxuries the rich believed they needed. Taichi slipped out of his shoes and felt the thick, sturdy walls.

"So, do you want to talk first or fuck?"

Takeru grinned and pulled Taichi to the bed.

"Talking isn't what I pay you for, is it?" Takeru dragged his mouth up to Taichi's ear and kissed him.

"Maybe you like my personality."

"It's just that you remind me of someone."

Taichi pretended to listen while taking off his clothes.

"You feel like her and," Takeru grabbed Taichi's wrists, "sometimes, you move like her too."

It was like always: Takeru carefully tugged off their clothes as if Taichi's feelings really mattered, and Taichi kissed him slowly and shyly, ducking his head before Takeru grabbed his chin and pulled him closer. Taichi had to muffle his voice when he came so that Takeru could have the fleeting moment, in which he believed Taichi was someone else.

When Takeru went to go take his shower, Taichi was already asleep, and Takeru wondered how long he was going to do this to himself.

The next morning, Taichi met Yamato for the first time.


	3. And this is the because

When Taichi saw Yamato, he thought, I've been here before, because, in truth, he has, just with different characters. But essentially, it was the same. Taichi was the prostitute, Takeru (or Seiji or Sakura or Kinji) was the rebelling son (or daughter), and Yamato was the family member that found out first and, usually, the one who disapproved the strongest. He looked down at them, eyes sharp and clear like two handfuls of water.

Taichi was in his boxers, and he pulled himself out of bed, the sheets rustling like dead leaves, and put on his pants. Takeru stirred in the bed, his eyes blinking slowly, and he began mumbling something to Taichi, but Yamato was there, the same golden hair, the same pale skin, the same small, lithe figure as his, and his words and his heartbeat tangled up inside his chest.

"Yamato—"

"A car's outside waiting for you. Mother was worried about you last night and wants to see you." Takeru fumbled out of bed, searching for his clothes.

"I don't want to go through this again, Takeru," Yamato said.

"I'm sorry, I just-- Taichi has--"

Yamato looked at Taichi. "He seems like he's used to this."

Takeru walked to the door. "This won't happen again," he said. "I can deal with this, Yamato. Let me deal with this."

"No."

Takeru made a motion to touch Yamato, a small jerk of his arms, a step forward, but Yamato looked determined and focused, and they both knew nothing would change the outcome. Taichi watched Takeru shut the door behind him; he was sitting comfortably on the couch, a notepad in one hand, and a pen in the other. Yamato walked across to him and sat down. It was a business transaction. Taichi would keep his mouth shut for money.

"Stay away from my brother," Yamato said clearly, each word curt and sharp; he had a simple, relaxed form of elegance, like the contrast between black and white, a pair of gloves sliding up to a girl's elbow, bare shoulders, or the vision of a smooth, arching neck. Taichi believed in being reasonable.

"I want ten thousand dollars every month," he said. Yamato expected this. He knew the price of being rich and careless, of owning a three-syllable word that tied him down to everyone else's consequences. He twisted his lips. "Fine."

Taichi's new apartment was snuggled between two larger brick buildings near a busy street. The walls were firm and dark green, smooth underneath his fingers. He bought a couch and a new mattress, which the movers had brought in last night. He felt the thickness of his pillow after breaking through its plastic wrapping, and spent thirty minutes in his shower until the water ran cold. Next month, he was going to buy a T.V. Taichi looked at the sturdy lock on his door, and wondered if this was what it felt to be home.

In truth, nothing had really changed, except that Taichi found himself a more stable job at a local bookstore across the street. It was a quaint little shop, owned by an old man. It had its regular customers, and a few other people dropped by now and then after they've rummaged through the city, the internet, and was still left empty-handed. There, they finally found what they had been looking for. Taichi didn't know where all the books came from; the old man kept it a secret. He said it would be like teaching a kid how to whistle. Taichi didn't mind not knowing all the secrets. He was content with pressing the numbers on the cash register, the process of a box full of money flinging open, a paper bag, and a face looking at him relieved and grateful; it was a nice change. But sometimes, Taichi returned, winking at Joe and laughing at Mimi, just for fun.

It was in that bookstore, Taichi met Izzy.

"There's a reason why I come here every day, you know," Izzy said to him. It was the ninth time he came over, a coffee in one hand, pockets full of money in the other.

"I thought it was just a personal mission of yours to empty out the bookstore, so that by the time your mid-life crisis comes around, you won't be tempted to buy a sizzling red Porsche. You'll be too busy sipping tea in your library while boasting to your dog about your self control."

"What about wooing a certain employee of the said bookstore?"

"Are you trying to hire me as a librarian?" Taichi squinted at him suspiciously; Izzy laughed.

"What will it take for you to go out with me?"

"You just need to be made out of money," Taichi said. He wasn't sure if it was pure jest or not, but to Izzy, it did not matter. He flung out five hundred dollar bills on the table.

"You do know that I take this thing seriously, right?" Taichi asked. The red glow of the lamp flickered suddenly.

"Prostitution or the money or, if I'm lucky, me?"

"Earning my money," Taichi replied.

"Then I'll see you tonight. Dress well; I'm going to a business gathering."

"The others might know."

"Then let them hang their head in shame for knowing such a thing. If they don't, I have my ways."

"Six hundred for the night, and a hundred for each hour after midnight."

"I'll see you at seven."

When Izzy left, Taichi wondered how some things never changed.

Izzy was sharp business suits and strict features when he arrived. Taichi did not expect any less, because even in the dim light of the bookstore, he could tell Izzy did not belong there the same way the books did not belong there, shrouded underneath the heavy dust. They both needed the glint of the sun, striking their edges in a painfully clear way that was different from the wavering shadows of the bookstore.

As they drove, Taichi could see the subtle changes in scenery, the grimy, city streets melting into a richer neighborhood with clean pavement and larger houses that were not just made up of random stones placed on top of each other. He could see the orange lights off in the distance.

He vaguely knew how to act in a gathering like this; he had been to a couple. Izzy led the way, smiling and greeting. He was familiar with many people in a subtle, condescending way that they accepted easily as a part of his charm. Taichi was courteous, and he answered charmingly to all the questions that they asked:

'Where did you meet?'

'In a bookstore,' he replied. 'We both went for the same book.'

'How come I haven't seen you before?'

'I was a bit nervous. I wanted to make a good impression, because he talks about you so frequently with great respect.'

Izzy tugged his arm, and slowly, he guided them out of the circle. They turned a corner, laughing and bumping into someone. They pulled themselves up, ready to apologize, but it was the same blonde hair that Taichi had seen before, the same blue eyes, and pale features.

"Oh Yamato!" Izzy said. "Yamato, this is Taichi. Taichi, this is Yamato." They shook hands and Taichi bowed. Yamato had a peculiar glint in his eyes, and he smiled, charming and graceful.

"Pleased to meet you."

Everything was one more secret, and Taichi laughed to keep it all shut.

"My pleasure."


	4. And this is the why

Yamato did not have the burning, spastic sort of pain that sucked in his chest, everything a little too edgy and sharp. His mother did not understand, and she used to turn him over on his stomach in his sleep while she rubbed large circles on his back, as if physically trying to ease out some hidden feelings.

"What were you doing?" he had asked one night. He had been awake, like always, when she came inside his room; a thin slit of light would slide between his eyes, and the world rose up.

"Feeling for knots," she said quietly. She looked at him steady and tired, her hair unraveled and curling by her neck. The light in the hallway fell at her feet.

"Did you find any?"

"You're still young," she replied, "and don't start to argue with me," but Yamato was already half-asleep, words heavy and lost in his mind. And somehow, he knew that this was breaking her heart.

...

They grew up together. Their fathers were friends, so, consequently, friendship between him and Izzy was naturally assumed. They went to the same, rich, private boarding school, and they owned the same clothes until, somehow, Izzy integrated himself into his life, his fingers digging their way in while Yamato imagined himself closing off all his pores, his hair lining up straight and stiff against his skin so that nobody could touch him. When Yamato saw Izzy eating lunch one day with his friends, his head knocked back and laughing easily, he began to hate him, a dull, constant feeling in the pit of his stomach. The only thing they did not share was their social group, and Yamato always prized the fact that his friends were somewhere so high Izzy could not reach them with his hands, a little sticky, a little too big and awkward. But now, he was there, talking with them, digging his feet a little deeper into Yamato's life like a parasite. Yamato gripped his lunchbox tightly and strode over to them, his teeth biting the inside of his lower lip.

If Izzy did not get the message then, he was sure to get it afterwards complete with a messenger and a golden trumpet bursting out clattering sounds. Izzy suddenly became the last one to be picked for teams during recess, vicious songs about him were heard in the hallways, and a few boys, wild and wanting acceptance, occasionally took time after school to show Izzy exactly what they thought of him.

It was childish, Yamato knew that, but when he saw Izzy during class, edgy, his hair disarrayed, his fingers gripping a pencil tight enough to bruise, he felt immensely satisfied, as if this was the future of their lives. And, in a way, it was.

...

"I see you've met Izzy."

It was a week later. Yamato stood on Taichi's doorsteps with his eyes half drooped in a lazy gaze. This was the first time Taichi saw Yamato in something other than a suit, but regular jeans and an old, thin sweatshirt.

"He's a rich guy." Taichi shrugged. "He seems lonely. Maybe you should introduce your brother to him."

"I think him whoring you around would be cheaper than my brother," Yamato replied. Taichi laughed and opened the door, wide and inviting.

"Care to try that theory out?"

Yamato walked in. There was a bright mark near Taichi's collar that blended oddly with his skin like a plane in the sky.

"I'm not so cruel as to destroy some sort of self respect that you seem to have."

Taichi closed the door and offered him a cardboard box as a chair. He smiled, because he was practical in the blind sort of way (like his courage), and surviving was not a mark of shame. It was far better than leeching off his father's money.

"I guess we all have our different views," Taichi said, and dropped the conversation. Yamato felt it, and he did not mention it. Instead, he sipped his coffee while Taichi talked about his life, about having a some-what stable income, about the burnt eggs and bacons he had this morning.

"Can you whistle?" Taichi asked suddenly.

Yamato nodded. "But I'm not very good."

"Teach me," Taichi whispered.

"Nobody taught me, so I wouldn't know how," Yamato replied. Taichi could feel himself sink, not drown. A slow pulling by gravity into something heavy and thick. It was as if the only friend he ever had was in a quicksand with him.

...

Despite Taichi's world-weary views, they did not mean anything to him because he was fearless. And so, when he found a new dining table, a set of chairs, and a red, packaged whistle in his house the next day, he took it as it was, a declaration of deceit. However, because he was courageous, it did not matter to him, and he plunged himself in a familiar story, thinking he knew the outcome. What he did not realize was what those boys at Yamato's school ten years ago did not realize: it was unbelievably easy to fall in love with Yamato Ishida. His rough finger pads, the way he squinted against the sun while they laid with their backs against the grass, the swift twist of his lips, the casual sort of cruelty that went with his elegance. All of this became too easy to miss.

...

Yamato came one day with sushi and beer. Somewhere in the back of his mind, Taichi knew he was supposed to be meeting Izzy somewhere, but Izzy was harder to lose than a hidden smile and hands that gripped chopsticks like fangs, fingers poised as if they were pulling back to strike.

They watched reruns of old shows while pointing out idiocies to each other and laughing. At one point, Yamato caught Taichi's lips in a kiss, and it occurred so naturally that Taichi wondered why it did happen before. Yamato's lips were smooth and graceful, and Taichi moved naturally, his hands working on their own accord. They both had enough experience to know what was going to happen next. Later, when Taichi reflected on this occurrence, he'll realize that Yamato's kiss remind him a lot of Izzy or rather, Izzy's kiss reminded him a lot of Yamato's, because they felt like failed imitation of Yamato's than anything else. Izzy kissed with a fevered urgency that he tried to hide unlike Yamato, who did everything with his eyes half closed and looking like a cat. Izzy always stopped a bit too short, gasping for breath, but Yamato moved back while Taichi leaned forward, leaving only a tiny break that felt like proper, necessary punctuation.

However, Taichi will not think about this until much later, after the sex, after the showers, after Yamato leaves, picking up his jacket with a blank look on his face. Yamato knew he did not have to try anymore; he did not need to charm Taichi with gifts and words that felt like cotton in his mouth. He had known, for a long time, how easy he could imprint himself in other people's lives, and that they would try like an orphaned child to keep him there. He placed a hundred dollars on the kitchen table and left, his clothes neat (not crisp – that was more Izzy than Yamato) and car keys jingling sharply in his hands.

What they both did not know was that neither was like what the other expected him to be. Taichi was far too self-reliant to be needy, and even if he was, he would never show it. Yamato, on the other hand, knew what he wanted, and if he found it, he was not the type to let go.

Taichi stared at the ceiling, one hand above his head, the sheets tangled around his legs, and waited for Izzy to call. He knew that love did not stop everything in its track, and he just had to keep breathing.


	5. And this is the what

Izzy called him back a week later. His voice sounded strangely strained in the phone as if something was stretching him all the way across the world. He cleared his throat, said it was getting a little stuffy and asked if Taichi wanted to meet him in the park.

"It's going to cost you," Taichi replied. The phone was squished between his ear and his shoulder as he tried to pull on his pants.

There was a strangling sort of silence, and Taichi nearly hung up when Izzy started speaking.

"Actually, I, um, wanted this to be a date-"

Taichi frowned. "I know."

"-not the business type."

Taichi held on to the phone for a second, his right thumb hovering over the 'end call' button. He could hear faint shuffling outside his door before it clicked open, and Yamato walked into the room, one hand running a towel through his hair.

"Who is it?" He asked, tossing the towel on the bed. He had a faint curve on his lips.

"Izzy," Taichi replied, watching Yamato carefully. Yamato kept his face clear and put on his shirt. "Tell him to tell my father that I'm going to be a little late for dinner tonight."

"Izzy-"

"Yeah, I heard," There was a loud crackle, before Izzy said stiffly, "I have to go, so-"

"I'll see you in thirty minutes then," Taichi replied and hung up before he could change his mind.

There was a dry taste in his mouth like the feeling of bad breath although the teeth were clean and the taste of toothpaste was still clinging to the roof of the mouth. The first had been a mistake. It was with Yamato. Taichi thought that if the second was deliberate, it could ease what Yamato had dropped: the sound of the percussion beating in his ears, the prickling feeling near his fingertips like static. If Izzy could become deliberate, then the empty feeling in his wallet could become deliberate too, and years later, it wouldn't be just Yamato that he equated this feeling to, but an evenly distributed share between him and Izzy.

Taichi was not ready to give up. Yamato wouldn't win, consciously or not.

Yamato walked out, saying he was going to go buy some yogurt. Taichi told him not to wait, although Yamato had left with everything, his phone, his jacket, his sunglasses, his car keys. The bed was made, edges tucked in and the blanket pulled straight, and the apartment was silent.

-

Izzy looked awkward in the sunlight, his shadow out of place as if it had come three hours early and was stuck in the wrong time. Taichi looked at him, chewing the inner corner of his mouth.

"You're buying, you know that right?" Taichi asked jokingly, but it did not feel natural, even more unnatural than the rich boys and their skin of money peeling into Taichi's hands.

"You like soccer?" Izzy asked, pointing to a group of kids bouncing a black and white ball around.

"It's ok. I never really had the chance to play it when I was young," He thought about saying something like 'You know how old men are; they're into monster trucks now,' but he didn't think Izzy was the type of person to enjoy that.

They spent the rest of hanging around various places that Taichi never had the money to go to. Izzy pointed out great monuments, explaining the architecture, while looking at Taichi out of the corner of his eyes. Despite what Taichi had originally thought, it was fun, although he had to stop Izzy when he began explaining the differences between sports balls.

At six, Izzy pointed to an Italian place across the street.

"Don't worry, I'll pay," he said, and Taichi wanted to say something like 'I can pay for myself, thanks,' but he knew Izzy meant it in a it's-the-least-I-can-do type of way that made Taichi bite his tongue.

When they came in, Izzy talked kindly to the waiter, gesturing to Taichi while saying table for two. There were a few other couples waiting outside, their cheeks flushed and annoyed, but the waiter led the way down a hall.

"Wait," Izzy said, "We can stay here a while."

"Oh no, it's no trouble. Please, follow me," he said, and gestured to the hall.

Taichi wished the waiter took Izzy's advice, because even in the dim light, he could make out Yamato's hair, his casual form as he talked easily to the girl in front of him, slightly leaning forward in his chair.

Taichi turned around, but it was too late. Izzy and Yamato stared at each other until Yamato blinked, his lips pulled back, and walked towards them.

"Izzy, I didn't know you were going to be here," Yamato said. Taichi tried to look bored as possible. The girl stood up, graceful, and smiled at Izzy. "I haven't seen you in a while," she said. "Yamato misses you."

"I'm sure," Izzy replied, and she laughed.

"Sora, have you met Taichi, yet?" Yamato asked. Taichi looked at her, a strange twisting feeling underneath his skin, and smiled charmingly. "Hello, a pleasure," he said, looking at her in the same way that he would have looked at an old friend. She giggled, then whispered something in Izzy's ear.

"Would you like to seat with us?" she offered, "I'm sure that can be arranged."

"We wouldn't want to impose on your date," Izzy said smoothly.

"Oh no, it's fine," and she ordered two more chairs to be situated near theirs along with another table.

Taichi greeted Yamato warmly before he listened to Sora point out her recommendations on the menu. Her red hair was pulled into a bun, which was coming a bit undone as she told Taichi stories about Izzy and Yamato as teenagers. Taichi laughed, forcing himself to forget who Sora was until she became strangely like a split pencil in the water. Yamato did not seem any different than before, talking to Izzy, who talked curtly. Izzy wondered if he was the only one who felt it; the increasing tension that settled in the air, doubling with any efforts from him to suppress it. Yamato tugged at his collar, sipping on water, mirroring the movement of Tai, and all Izzy could think about was how Yamato got it wrong: Taichi was drinking wine.


	6. And this is the unforgivable

It was more of a battle of wills than anything else, so when Sora, who had taken an odd liking to him ("you could have been my brother, you know," she later admitted), asked him to help organize a party for Yamato's most recent promotion, Taichi accepted.

In reality, it turned out that Sora had someone hired, and she just needed help picking Yamato's gift.

"But I don't know him very well," Taichi said. They were standing in front of a large window that Sora was eyeing critically, immaculate suits lined up and ready to burst into movement. A soft puff was coming out of Sora's mouth, her cheeks flushed red against her white skin, and Taichi couldn't remember ever hating someone so much before, a deep, seething feeling pounding on the side of his neck.

"Well, Izzy wouldn't come with me, and you're the only other person Yamato seems to see out of work." She smiled, a flash, and Taichi felt like throwing up, throwing something, throwing back the paper bills and payment and everything that had once been his motivation. He could feel it already, the slight change, and he hated it. Money made everyone greedy, even him, and he could see the green in his eyes, only it didn't seem to be about money anymore.

"Not really."

"Close enough," she said, and grabbed him in the store. As soon as they got in, she flung a suit in his hands. "Try this on. You'll need good clothes for the party, and I don't think you have any."

They left the store with two nice suits for Taichi, a necktie for Yamato, and new shoes for both of them.

"I'm also getting him this," she said, and pulled out a watch from her purse. "I got it while you were getting your clothes fit at a store nearby."

"It looks expensive," Taichi says.

"It is, but Yamato deserves the best, don't you agree?" She smiled thinly, a bright look in her eyes. Taichi could feel his edge slowly dulling, and he stared at his hands, his fingertips chewed up like an old shoe and the line of blood gathering behind his nails.

"Yes." Taichi looked up and smiled. "So, when are you two getting married?"

He didn't listen long enough to hear an answer.

Yamato came by the next day. Taichi saw him sitting down and leaning against the wall as he climbed up the stairs, Yamato's arms resting on his knees. He greeted him politely and opened the door, throwing his keys on the table.

"Did you wait long?" Taichi asked. He went to the kitchen to grab a glass of milk.

"Kind of."

"Is today your day off?"

Yamato nodded. "Actually, I should be seeing Sora right now. We haven't seen each other much."

Taichi drowned his drink in one gulp, and he could feel the cold spiking his brain. He grabbed his head. "What do you need?"

"Nothing much. I just felt like coming here." Yamato stood at the door of his kitchen, looking at him oddly. "You ok?"

"Fine," Taichi muttered, and began taking off his clothes. "I'm going to shower, so make yourself at home."

"Hey, wait." Yamato grabbed his wrists and held them loosely in his hands. "You're looking kind of thin."

"Is this your idea of a pickup line? 'You look like shit, want to fuck?'"

"It's not like you'll refuse no matter what I say."

Taichi kissed him. "That's true." They stumbled to the bedroom, clothes falling, and breathing rushed and hard. "But, too bad you're not the only one."

Yamato squeezed his shoulders, enough to send a painful groan out of Taichi's lips.

"Fuck, what the hell?"

"Shut up." Yamato pushed him down hard on the bed. "You talk too much."

Taichi grinned. He searched for something to grab onto – his sheets, Yamato's back, the ceiling. This wasn't the way it was supposed to be.

"That's what Izzy said too," Taichi grunted out, and kissed Yamato before anything else could happen. He would not lose, Taichi thought to himself, he would not lose.

By the time Yamato left, Sora had called three times. Taichi punched out Izzy's numbers on his cell phone; he felt sick.

"Hey."

"Taichi?"

"Let's meet." Taichi could almost see Izzy grinning from the other line.

"Coffee? I have this- Yamato?"

Taichi felt his heart stop.

"Taichi, sorry, can you hold on a second? Yamato's here."

Taichi could catch phrases from their conversation, but it was too difficult to try. He laid his head on his arms. There was something wrong; he could feel it.

"Taichi?" Izzy was back, again. "I'm sorry, I can't meet you today. Maybe later." He hung up, and Taichi stared at his phone before it started ringing again.

"Hello?"

"We should meet."

Taichi wasn't surprised to hear Yamato on the other line – the cool even breathing, the careless words. There was something wrong.

"I-"

"I'm getting married." Taichi felt himself choke; something was wrenching his heart.

"That's great."

"You should sound more enthusiastic. It's your wedding too."

"Excuse me?" Taichi could almost hear soft slide of Yamato's lips, a small grin, as he replied: "I said, we're getting married."

The world stopped.


	7. And this is the changed

Taichi hung up with a barely audible click from the phone, and he stared at his ceiling for a moment, his brain refusing to think. He felt groggy, and rested his forehead on his knees before pulling himself up to go get a drink. If it was anybody else, Taichi would have left his apartment, turned off his phone, and slept at the nearest motel, but he already knew Yamato wouldn't come by tonight. Maybe tomorrow.

He spent the rest of the night watching old horror movies and eating chips. Yamato did not come.

…

It was as if the world was turning thick, and Taichi shifted on the couch, feeling dirty and exhausted like something had been pushing against his body the entire night. The phone rang ten times throughout the day, but he didn't pick it up, and instead took 3 showers until he decided to go visit Mimi.

She looked good, better than the other kids there. She smiled, and for the first time in the day, he smiled back.

"Rich life getting to you?"

"Of course not. I've just been busy. Actual work is harder than sex, you know."

She laughed lightly. "Spoiled brat. We still missed you though. A lot of kids came by asking for you."

"If I could be young until the day I die, I would live my life doing this, Mimi."

"This? Sex? You're barely in your 20s Tai, a bit too old for thinking about things like the rest of you're life."

He shrugged. "You're just saying that because I get the good ones. Speaking of which, got anyone for me?"

She shoved him lightly and winked. "Of course. His name is Oishi. He's cute."

Taichi saw him, thin and cocky, popping his gum. "He'll do," he whispered, and grinned.

…

When Taichi came back, Yamato was at his door, flipping through a book. Reflexively, Taichi smoothed his shirt.

"You're a bit late," Yamato remarked carelessly.

"Great. You finally mastered the art of telling time."

Yamato ignored him. "Open the door," he said with a thin edge in his voice. Taichi almost missed it.

He took out his keys and barely unlocked the door when Yamato slammed him against the wall and kissed him violently, squeezing his shoulders.

Taichi smiled and pushed back, taking off his shirt without even thinking about it. Yamato ran his hand against the new scratches on his back and Taichi hissed.

"So this is what you've been doing all night," Yamato remarked, digging deeper.

"Fucker, don't touch me."

"I thought you liked this." Yamato kissed him harder, and they stumbled to the bathroom, knocking down chairs, hitting edges, and feeling each other through the dark. "Isn't this what you want, you little bastard?"

"Shut the hell up."

"Is this what you want me to do to you? Is that it?"

Taichi refused to answer and pulled off Yamato's pants, feeling the slight bulge. He brought his head down, but Yamato stopped him, jerking his head back up.

"What the fuck do you think you're doing?" Yamato pushed him down, his lips pulled back in a snarl.

He brought his head dangerously close, and Taichi stared straight ahead at the ceiling, feeling the sheets on his mattress. "You think I kept you around for charity?"

Yamato pulled back and grabbed his shirt, suddenly calm and loose. "Sora's still angry, so stay out of her way for a while," he said, much softer. "I suggest that you don't repeat whatever the hell you were doing today again. I don't want to tell you this again."

Taichi blinked, his throat dry and heart wild in his chest.

The door shut silently, and Taichi wondered if this was it, if after trying to delay the climax in his life, this was it and it had already passed him by so quickly. He fell asleep, suddenly tired, and tried not to wake up.

…

The next time the phone rang, it was Yamato's father asking to meet with him. Taichi tried to ignored the disturbing feeling in his stomach, but couldn't, and when he arrived in the agreed place, it was as if he couldn't breath.

"Mr. Yagami?"

"Yes. Hello Mr. Ishida."

"I understand that you're to be marrying my son."

"I-"

"I have within my possessions half a million dollars. I want you to stay away from Yamato; he seems to be going through a phase right now."

Taichi stared at the money, knowing he should take it, knowing it was the same as all the others. This was what he had been doing his entire life. The envelope was thin and slim, sitting unobtrusively on the table.

"Thank you," he finally replied and made to reach for it when a hand grabbed his wrists and dragged him out of his chair.

"Father," Yamato said, and bowed, his grip tightening each second.

"Yamato, I was just talking to your little friend here. He seems like a reasonable young man, so please release his hand."

"I'm sorry, but that's impossible. We have to leave."

Taichi could barely feel his arm anymore and stumbled out of the store after Yamato.

He turned back, a barely noticeable red tint to his cheeks, but Taichi could tell for certain he was furious; he could feel it trembling beneath his skin. When he spoke, however, the words came out cool and even, and Taichi could barely comprehend that it was Yamato who was talking, not some stranger. "It's not a wise idea to hang around old men who's willing to offer you half a million dollars to do something," he said, a crooked smile forming on his face. "You never know what they want. Go home, and I'll see you later."

There was a slight tickle in Taichi's throat before he started to laugh uncontrollably, his stomach aching and legs feeling weak and childish.

"Yamato," Taichi said, and smiled. He already felt like a wife, the feeling pressing down on him ten folds than before, and he had to keep his lips wide and grinning before he did something he might regret. "Wash your shirt. You have lipstick all over it," he said, and walked away.

Yamato looked down, and it was true. He could have said it was Sora, it was his mother, but Taichi would have known the truth anyways.

A girl came up to him and kissed his lips. "Who was that?"

Yamato pushed her away, disgusted. "Don't touch me," he said. He had barely thought about it before with Sora, but there was something in the way Taichi had pointed out his hypocrisy that made him feel slightly uneven and unreasonable.

"Yamato-"

"I don't think we should see each other again," he told her curtly. It was like finishing a chapter.


End file.
